


Motorcycles are the Shit

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Motorcycles, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America cleans his motorcycle. England really likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motorcycles are the Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Original Publication Date: July 16, 2010

He did it every spring.

 

When the snow thawed and disappeared into the ground, and the ice finally left the streets safe for travellers, America could always be found in his garage. His fingers moved the rags quickly but efficiently, brushing away dirt and salt, protecting the red and blue paint from chipping away and leaving the bike unprotected against the elements. He wet and dried the rags by his side, tossing them aside when he was done to wash later. He ran a wet rag up the exhaust to remove the grime and the elements, then dried it with another dry rag, being sure to leave no trace of water or soap. It wouldn't do to leave smudges and spots behind, marring the beauty of the bike he had lovingly cared for over the past five years.

 

He had always had bikes. Ever since their appearance in his country, he had held a certain fondness for them. People had hated the groups that rode on them, but he had found an understanding. Many riders had been pilots, and needed a release after battles and war. They had wanted an escape, and had found it on the two-wheeled vehicle that could spirit them away to locations unknown but desired.

 

They may have strayed from their path over the years, but their original intentions were still there, and those intentions were held near and dear to America's heart. He loved the thrill and the open road, the feeling of the sky as he sped from the midwest to the northeast, listening to everything from Johnny Cash to ZZ Top. He was proud of his history, proud of how the open road could still call to him despite the troubles both overseas and in his home.

 

As he cleaned, history ran through his mind. While there had been the bad, there had also been the good, the successful. When he checked the oil, he recalled the origins of the AMA. When he lovingly polished the gas tank, making the Stars and Stripes shine brightly, he thought of the Patriot Guard, and the many times he had ridden with them and attended funerals, his flag flying above the heads of riders and pedestrians alike as they honored the children that had protected and served for him.

 

“I wish you'd act like this during the meetings.”

 

America looked up quickly, his heart stuttering in surprise. He hadn't noticed the man by the door of the garage, and he squeezed the rag in his hand.

 

“England,” he greeted, trying not to sound surprised. He dropped the rag to the cement floor and stood, stretching his arms above his head to try and fill the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “So... Thought you weren't coming 'til tomorrow.”

 

“I decided to come early. Is that a bad thing?” England asked, his voice bored. But his eyes were locked on America's hands, and his mouth was curved downward into a frown.

 

“Thanks for the heads up,” America said, and he wandered over to the sink that was affixed to the wall next to his tool chest. He ran the water and dipped his hands under the stream, wetting them and rubbing them together quickly before he finally turned off the tap and dried them. England didn't say anything, and America looked back. “Something wrong? Usually you're yelling at me about manners 'r somethin' by now.”

 

England just shrugged and wandered towards the bike, letting his fingers touch the handlebars. He gave it a long, hard stare and twisted his lips into an expression akin to confusion as he thought something over.

 

“England?”

 

“You like this bike.”

 

“It's nice,” America said quickly. “Goes where I want it to go, an-”

 

“Yes, yes.” England let his hand slide from it, and he turned away. He started back towards the door of the garage, intent on leaving and settling himself inside the house. He would have made it, had America not caught his arm and turned him.

 

“Somethin' wrong?” America asked, and England had time to think about how hopelessly clueless the other was before he had tilted his head upward slightly and met America's lips with his own.

 

America obviously didn't understand why he had received a kiss, but he wasn't about to push away the person before him. Not when it had been a month since they had last met, and that had been for a few short days filled with paperwork and phonecalls and not nearly enough time _together_.

 

“Eng-”

 

“If you talk, I'm leaving right now,” England hissed. America stopped talking and moved his lips slightly, letting England fill his mouth as he tried to think of what to do.

 

“Bed-”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Nothin' in her-”

 

“'Merica.”

 

America stopped speaking, and England nipped at his lips. His hand had found its way to America's back pocket, and he fished out the wallet within while his other hand grabbed America's hip. America tried to break away from the kiss, but England pressed forward and silenced him, pressing his leg against the bulge that was quickly growing in America's jeans.

 

America was a typical teenager, England found when he finally fished open the wallet with his free hand. He slipped his fingers into the pockets and heard the crinkle of the plastic wrapper, and slipped the condom from its place within (probably behind America's license, but he wasn't going to check). He pushed, and America willingly moved ( _fell_ ) back, bumping into the tool bench and letting England pin him there, the wood digging into America's back. America's hands dropped to the bench to brace himself, and keep him upright, and England's hand left America's hip. America made a noise deep in his throat when England shifted his leg to press it against his groin, and then fingers were between them, brushing America's erection but refusing to do any more. Instead, England busied himself with unzipping his own pants to free his cock, opening the wrapper and sliding the condom down.

 

“ _England,_ ” America moaned, his breath catching in his throat when England's fingers brushed his erection once more, rubbing slow circles on the denim that separated them.

 

England, America was quickly discovering in their ever-evolving relationship, had the patience of a saint. America cursed that patience, especially when England stopped moving his hand, and _removed_ said appendage from America's groin. America tried to stop the whine that burst from his lips, and England actually _looked around_ before setting his eyes back on America. His face was red, but his eyes were playful.

 

“We seem to be missing something,” England _purred_ into America's ear, earning a half-hearted glare that was really just an expression of helplessness and need.

 

America tried to think, though most (if not all) of his blood had travelled south for more pressing matters than trying to figure out what the hell England was talking about. His blank expression indicated as much, and England sighed.

 

“It's going to hurt,” England leaned forward and whispered into America's ear, “ _a lot_.”

 

America swallowed and moved one of his hands down, touching the handle of a drawer which England slowly pulled open. A grin spread across England's face, and he reached in and pulled out the large white box nestled within.

 

“You keep it in your first aid kit?” England purred, and he flipped the top up, the hinges creaking almost mockingly as America waited. America's breaths were becoming louder with every passing moment, and waiting for England to return to his ministrations had become painful. One of England's hands had disappeared, and he almost sagged in relief when his jeans were unzipped and pushed down. Half-lidded blue eyes watched eagerly as England's hands once again came into sight, slowly opened the top of the small bottle, and then England was kissing him, forcing him to look away from the sight he had so desperately wanted to watch. Then something was pressing against him and pushing inside, and he shuddered at the feeling, the probing. England was finally beginning to crack, his calmness giving way to something more needy, and America moved a hand to England's hip.

 

A second finger moved inside him, and he squirmed. England had shut his eyes and moved closer, so that they were pressed together. America's legs trembled and spread slightly, the fingers moving within him stretching him and opening him up. America's cock throbbed, and another finger joined the first two. America's hands tightened at the dull ache that had begun, an ache that would probably never go away no matter how many times they had sex. England was pulled closer, and with a twist of the fingers, America was seeing stars. His body jerked, and then the sensation was gone, and England was smirking at him through the haze brought on by that _spot_ , that damned spot that England needed to get back to.

 

Then the fingers were gone, and America had to suffer through the knowledge that when England's hands disappeared it wasn't _his_ cock that was being touched, nor was it him that was feeling the fullness that England always gave him. America felt rather irritated by the thought. Then England's hands were back on his ass, and with a sharp breath, England was inside and America was moaning at the sensation. England _pushed_ and America grabbed at him with both hands, letting himself fall back against the bench so that he could wrap his arms around the former empire that was on top of him. He tried to push back everytime England thrust into him, but what few organized thoughts he had were quickly shoved aside when England hit _that damned spot_ , and he was seeing white and black and England had begun to stroke him, and _god damn it, why didn't he just go visit more often?_ England was restraining himself, sweat beading on his chin as he moved _slowly_ , using his hand and his cock to take America as high as he could go, higher and higher until America was barely thinking straight and was simply spewing obscenities and prayers and _England_ , and England was pulling him closer while America was trying to hold on to him, through the pleasure that addled his brain and made him just want _more_.

 

England's patience was gone, and he jerked on America's cock, his other hand squeezing America's thigh and pulling on it as he thrust faster. America had tried and failed to keep up, his mind short-circuiting every time England hit that spot and sent pleasure coursing through him and he knew he couldn't hold on, and with a strangled yell (muffled by England's mouth) he was coming, and England was still thrusting through the clenching muscles until he too was spent and leaning against America, sweaty and trembling and breathing heavily.

 

It was quiet in the garage. America had slumped against the bench, letting himself sink down after England had pulled out. Their breaths were heavy, and America tried to look England in the eye, to say something (he didn't know what). But England had his forehead pressed against America's chest, bent down and probably tired. America looked over slowly at his bike and stared at it, then began to open his mouth.

 

“If you ask if your _bike_ is going to need counselling after this, I'm probably going to murder you,” England growled. America shut his mouth and groaned softly, wondering when he was going to ask England what the hell that had been.

 

Or he could just go with the fact that he was irresistible, and suggest they go out for a ride later.


End file.
